Vatican Murders
by Nina La Vough
Summary: Booth and Bones...the murder of an exchange student in St. Priscilla's Catacombs at the Vatican. The search for the murderer will make both of them bump heads with the Papal authorities and each other.
1. St Priscilla's Catacombs

**Welcome to the wild world of a round-robin fanfiction writing. For those of you who have read **_**Crossing Jordan**_** fanfiction, the name Nina La Vough should ring a bell. She has been the pen name for various authors for that TV show for several years. Each Nina La Vough story is written by a varied group of writers. Since **_**Crossing Jordan**_** was cancelled last year, some of us have turned to writing **_**Bones**_** fanfiction. **

**This time, Nina La Vough is made up of Rin22 and NCCJFAN. This is our first time writing together and we hope you like the product.**

**As usual, neither of us own anything connected to **_**Bones**_**. That all belongs to Hart Hanson, Fox, and Kathy Reich. No profit is being made by either of us.**

**Because if it was, we'd make Zach's bail and spring him from that institution.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**St. Pricilla's Catacombs **

Incense.

Candles.

The soft murmuring of last minute prayers.

The old nun smiled, the satisfaction of the mass and communion plainly showing on her wrinkled face. Now that the parishioners and tourists had either fulfilled their religious obligation or their non-Catholic curiosity, she could complete her own act of worship. Hands gnarled with time and Christian service lit a candle and Sister Angela knelt in front of statues.

_Hail Mary__**, **__full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women,_

_and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen._

"Sister Angela!"

Ignoring the call for her attention, the elderly nun continued…

_Glory be__to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the_

_beginning is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen._

"Sister Angela!"

The pleas for attention were more urgent, but the Sister was intent on finishing her prayers before lunch.

_O my Jesus …_

"Sister Angela!" The voice was beside her now. Reluctantly the nun raised her head and opened her eyes, preparing to give whoever it was interrupting her act of worship a stern tongue lashing once out of quiet solemnity of the church.

"Forgive me, Sister Angela, but you must come." The rather large form of Margaret stood before the nun, nearly bowing and tripping over her own two feet. Margaret was a novice, preparing for the vow.

And only something of great importance would have made the other nuns send Margaret to interrupt Sister Angela's worship. Something of great importance…or a great disaster.

Instantly the aged nun was on her feet, speed belying the years spent on her knees. "What is it my child?"

"Sister Constance said you must come…and quickly…I fear…" Margaret took the nun by the hand and led her out of the dark confines of the Basilica and into the bright sunshine of a Sunday morning in Rome. Across the court yard…through a narrow entrance way that only the nuns used, down the steps and into the catacombs of Saint Priscilla. Neither woman spoke on their way, the urgent look on Margaret's face giving Angela all the information she needed Whatever the disaster was, it was bad. Bad enough to warrant interrupting an old nun at her prayers.

And bad enough to risk going down into the catacombs of Saint Priscilla – catacombs that were currently undergoing restoration and more exploration. For years the nuns had used the Saint's catacombs as place to make the holy vestments worn by priests and the Pope himself. The dig work ordained by the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology had produced more holy artifacts but had forced the nuns to move their sewing and embroidery work to another location under a villa owned by the ancient Roman family of Arcili -- the family that claimed Saint Priscilla as one of their own.

None of the nuns had been in the catacombs for weeks. The archaeological workers hadn't been down there in days. The latest find, a small, ornate silver chalice, had been hailed as major find, but the digging had weakened one of the walls of the catacombs. The workers were waiting on scaffolding to be set in place before continuing their work.

In short, no one had been down in Saint Priscilla's Catacombs in at least a week. Probably more like ten days. What prompted Sister Constance to suddenly disobey the order to stay out of the area until further notice? As Sister Angela rounded a corner of the catacombs with Margaret, she found her answer.

It was an altar. A crude one, thrown together by lumber left by the archaeological team.

And on it were the remains of a body.

_..forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of Hell; lead all souls to_

_Heaven, especially those in most need of Thy mercy. Amen._

Sister Angela mentally finished her prayer before crossing herself.

_Our Father, who art in heaven…_

_

* * *

_In Booth's opinion, Monday mornings should begin a lot quieter.

It wasn't enough that he had been back and forth with Cullen half of Sunday night on the phone. Sunday had begun normal…orderly…gently. Mass. Pick up Parker at Rebecca's. Lunch. Afternoon at the park. Take Parker back to Rebecca's. Burger and a beer at the diner. Home. TV. Bed.

At least that's how it was supposed to be. But somewhere between re-runs on Comedy Central and the eleven o'clock news, all hell had broken lose in Rome. Some remains had been found in the catacombs of Saint Priscilla. And for all his Catholic upbringing and catechism classes, for the life of him Booth couldn't remember a Saint Priscilla.

"Saint Priscilla? You mean as in Aquilla and Priscilla in the New Testament?" Booth had quizzed Cullen.

"How do I know? I'm Protestant."

Booth pinched the bridge of his nose. "Priscilla and Aquilla are in the New Testament of the Holy Bible. Protestants and Catholics_ both_ read that."

"Oh." Cullen had cleared his throat. So much for religious training on the director's part. He quickly veered back to the subject at hand. "Look, Booth…the remains of an exchange student have been found…"

And as the case was going so far, the Vatican police had tentatively identified the body as a female exchange student from New Jersey. That plainly put the remains under the jurisdiction of the United States and the FBI. The Vatican police had made a phone call to the US Ambassador, who in turn had interrupted Cullen's Sunday dinner.

Then Cullen had put the case in Booth's able and Catholic hands – who in turn was going to tell his more-than-able and distinctively nonreligious and definitely non-Catholic partner she needed to pack a suitcase and any equipment she may need because they had a flight to catch.

First to London.

Then to Rome.

Then the Ambassador's car would take them to the Vatican.

The Vatican. One of the most revered places for a Catholic. Only Bones wasn't Catholic. She wasn't even religious. God Himself only knew how she would react…much less what she would say.

Booth began to feel a headache pound behind his eyes. He silently said a Hail Mary and mentally crossed himself before he stepped on the platform at the Jeffersonian.

"Bones…we have a case."


	2. Best Hope

**Chapter Two**

World travels were nothing new to Brennan. In her line of work, she had been to most every important archaeological site in addition to many lesser-known but equally important ones. Though her trips were always made under an agreement of neutrality, the host countries had sometimes been less than accommodating. She had the scars to prove it.

Those incidences were few and far between and she had been able to rationalize their occurrences with the fact that she had helped with important finds, whether they were artifacts or human remains. Often she had given identities to victims, and peace to grieving families. Her work had been terribly similar to what she did on a weekly basis at the Jeffersonian. Her worldwide expeditions were not the stuff of Hollywood romanticism by any means.

Now it seemed she would be returning to that work, only this time with Booth by her side. What an odd thought. She glanced at him as she continued exactly what she had been doing when he interrupted her on the platform.

"I don't understand," she said, peering at the skull in her hand as she carefully scraped at particulates from the eye sockets. "Why do they need us to fly out there? Can't the authorities from Rome handle the case?"

"No, Bones, they can't," Booth explained patiently. How did he know this was going to be difficult? "Based on dental records, they have the girl identified as one Olivia Daniels from Hoboken, New Jersey. She was there on an exchange program through NYU, studying," he paused flipping through the case file he had received. Not finding the detail he was searching for, he let it flip shut and shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno, art history or religious studies or something."

"You shouldn't generalize areas of study like that, Booth," Brennan chided him, tapping a scraping from the bone onto a sample dish, then returning the tool to the other eye socket. "There's a huge difference between those two fields."

"What difference does it make? All these kids go off to foreign countries in college for the same reason."

"And what reason is that?"

"To get away from the supervision of school, to be in a country that doesn't have a strict legal drinking age," Booth informed her as he stepped closer to her workspace. He placed his hands on the steel table and leaned forward, dropping his voice suggestively. "The chance to have a fling with someone with a hot accent."

Brennan's hand stilled and she brought her gaze up to meet his, her eyes narrowing.

"Or maybe… she was just there to study," she said. Booth pointed a finger at her.

"Just because that's all you would do, Bones, doesn't mean that that's what everyone would do," he smiled, teasing. Brennan tilted her head and gave him a small smile, then returned to her work, the instrument in her hand making a grating noise as it scraped along the bone.

"I still find it offensive that you don't want to give any consideration to what she was there to study," she told him, now scraping the bone with more force. Booth winced as he watched her, not appreciating the sight at all. "People used to think it was okay to lump me in the same field as every other anthropology student in college. It didn't seem to matter to anyone that the fields of study within anthropology vary greatly. The particular focus is important; it individualizes a student… cultural, biological, archaeological…"

Booth reached out a hand and placed it on top of the one that was currently tracing the nasal cavity of the skull. Brennan stopped and looked up at him in surprise.

"Could you… not do that while we're talking," Booth requested with a slightly disgusted look on his face.

"Of all the things we've seen, _this_ bothers you?"

Booth folded his arms across his chest, subconsciously puffing himself up.

"The noise," he said unconvincingly. "It's hard on the ears."

Brennan gave him a skeptical look, but put the skull down anyway, straightening and placing her hands on her hips.

"Thank you," Booth said. "So anyway. Our flight is tonight. I'll pick you up at six."

"Whoa!" Brennan exclaimed.

_There it is_, Booth thought, ready to handle the coming objections. He barely listened to her rant as he opened the file one more time, shuffling through the papers for one item in particular.

"Booth, I have a huge amount of work on my hands right now, I have hundreds of skeletons in limbo that I was planning on identifying over the next several days. Not to mention the fact that the Jeffersonian is putting an incredible amount of pressure on me to select a new intern, and I…" she trailed off as Booth held up an eight by ten photograph of who she could only assume was the victim.

She studied the smiling face. The girl was young, her face still hanging onto the remnants of baby pudge. Her alabaster skin was sprinkled with freckles across the bridge of her nose, her fluffy strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and her hazel eyes sparkling behind a pair of thick, round glasses. Brennan felt her throat constrict slightly.

"She was only eighteen, Bones," Booth said solemnly. "On the trip of a lifetime, on the brink of an exciting adult life. From a good Catholic family. Don't tell me she doesn't deserve your time. Don't tell me her family doesn't deserve an answer. You're her best hope."

Brennan sucked in a breath and looked up into her partner's eyes, pleading and determined. When had she become incapable of saying no to that look?

"Okay," she consented.

"Good," Booth nodded and returned the photo to the folder. "I'll let the Vatican authorities know to expect us tomorrow."

"I'm sorry… the Vatican?"

_Ding_, round two.

"Her body was found in the catacombs of Saint Priscilla," Booth said carefully. "The crime scene lies under the jurisdiction of the Vatican."

He could see the tension and general disapproval set in to every aspect of Brennan's being.

"I have to work in cooperation with the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Anthropology," she stated more than asked. Booth shifted uncomfortably.

"Well… yes," he stammered. She continued to stare at him for several moments, appearing to be weighing her options on the matter.

"You are so lucky I like you."

It wasn't much of an answer, but at the moment, Booth was willing to take it. He gave her a relieved grin and dropped the case file on her work station for her to look at before their flight that evening.

"See you at six, Bones," he said, turning to head down the stairs of the platform. Just as he was about to leave the room, her voice called out after him.

"And when you talk to the Vatican authorities, you can tell Signor Giacomo Moretti of the Pontifical Commission that, unlike last time, I will not be following the limits set by his church. This is a murder investigation, not a retrieval expedition, and I intend to treat it as such."

Booth felt his jaw clench at her words.

_God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change… _This was going to be a fabulous trip.


	3. Faith

**Chapter Three**

**What is Faith?**

The flight to London was uneventful, aside from Bones continuing to argue about how the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Anthropology

"They're not going to let us do a real investigation."

Booth shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pretended not to hear her as he flipped through the file he had in his lap.

"You've been through that thing a dozen times. Nothing new is going to hop out at you," Bones continued.

"Pop. The word is 'pop'. Nothing is going to pop out at me." He sighed this time and rolled his shoulders, hoping some of the tension between them would loosen.

"Pop, hop…whatever. Anyway, you're not going to learn anything new by looking at that file again. We don't have that much to go on at any rate. And besides the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Anthropology are going to tie down our hands anyway."

"Tie up. Tie up our hands, Bones." A small smile played at the corners of Booth's lips. "And how do you know that for sure?"

"Because I have worked with these people before, remember? While you might go to church every Sunday and feel great about your priest and your statues and your candles and your sacraments, just remember _I've_ worked with them. And I'm telling you Signor Giacomo Moretti is going to do his best _not_ to let us complete an investigation…"

"Bones." Booth finally swiveled what he could of his body toward her, cursing the downsizing of airline seats as well as the downsizing of everything else the airlines had. "Cullen's talked to the US Ambassador. He's assured us that we have the complete and full cooperation of the Vatican, their police, and the Pontifical Commission. We'll be fine."

He should have just stopped there. He knew it. As soon as she tilted her chin up another stubborn notch, Booth knew he should have just let Bones rant about the commission and Catholics – just let her run herself out and then maybe he could have a few hours of peace for his body to adjust to the time differences between DC and Rome.

But did he listen to himself? No. And now she was on a full-out tear. "_You'll_ be fine," she countered. "Because you'll be there in Catholic Mecca with all the supposed bones and relics of your saints –- which by the way, are all probably false. No one will ever really know because the 'holy church'" – she paused for a moment to do air quotes – "won't let real archaeologists and scientists in to do controlled examinations. Then to top it off, there's no DNA to compare anything to, so just how do all you Catholics know that any of this is real? How can you believe in something you can't prove?"

The headache that had begun to pound behind his eyes earlier at the Jeffersonian went up an octave and began to pick up its beat. Booth wondered what the airline was now charging for aspirin. "Faith, Bones. Faith. You have to take some things in life on faith." He closed his eyes and prayed that this would at least satisfy her for a few minutes.

Instead he heard a snort. "Faith. Let me tell you a little something about faith and the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Anthropology. If Signor Giacomo Moretti still chairs that particular commission, all the faith in the world isn't going to find any answers for Olivia Daniels from Hoboken, New Jersey."

* * *

She slept most of the flight from London to Rome.

Booth absorbed the quiet like a sponge, letting the peace and the smell of her perfume wash over him.

A part of him realized that she was right. In reality, just like the Shroud of Turin, there really was no way to know if any of the relics the Catholic Church possessed were real. To be sure, the saints had been. There was historical and church proof of them. But the relics? An anthropologist could give a bone a date, an archaeologist could give a chalice a name, but to know if Saint Peter really used that chalice in the sacrament of the table – that was impossible.

But not everything in the universe ran on fact and science. Sometimes hunches and gut feelings, things that couldn't be defined or quantified, panned out to be valuable assets in an investigation. And Bones had yet to realize that a lot of what went on in life boiled down to faith. Faith in a system you couldn't control, faith in a God you couldn't see, and faith in emotions you couldn't stick under a microscope and measure.

She had faith in him. Booth knew that. He had never let her down, always had her back, and had never left her. But, looking her asleep in the seat next to him, her head resting on his shoulder, he had to wonder, did she have enough faith to accept the fact that his feelings went further than just guy hugs and take out Thai food on her couch after a hard case? Did she have enough faith in him to trust him with a part of her that no other man had claimed?

As seatbelt sign flashed and the landing gear engaged, Booth wasn't sure. "We're here," he whispered softly, gently nudging her awake.

* * *

Certain things are universal. Starbucks Coffee is one. Yellow crime scene tapes are another.

Booth and Temperance had no trouble getting from the airport to the Vatican, and much to Bones' surprise, no trouble getting from the Vatican to the Catacombs of Saint Priscilla. The yellow, plastic tape greeted them there, waving in the warm wind like a tour guide beckoning his tourist group.

Only this was no happy reminder of a European holiday. It was a tragic symbol of a study program cut short and a young, promising life ending far too soon. Booth peered over the top of his sunglasses, down the stairs into the catacombs while Bones fidgeted to his right.

"We need to get down there," she hissed. "God only knows how they've compromised my remains."

"I'm sure He does, Bones," Booth replied, a false lilt of humor tempering the edge of his words. "After all, we're here in His holy house. He's bound to know what's going on, compromised crime scene and all."

He met her eyes over the tops of his sunglass then, one message conveyed loud and clear – _Calm down. We'll call in reinforcements if necessary. Just. Don't. Make. Waves. Now. _Temperance knew the look and returned it with one of her own – _Don't. Push. Me. Too. Far._

The soft swish of robes interrupted their stare-down. "Special Agent Booth," a voice called from behind. The tone was soft, yet authoritative, demanding respect. Booth turned. The short, balding man held out his hand to Booth. "I'm Signor Giacomo Moretti. There was a pause as the older man took in the person next to Booth. "And Dr. Brennan?" Pale blue eyes peered up into cerulean ones. "I didn't expect to see you again."

"Signor Moretti, I know you understand the time-sensitive nature of our investigation," Booth began diplomatically.

"And that we need to get down there to the remains now before they're compromised any further," Bones interrupted, elbowing her way into the conversation between Booth and the Signor.

The priest shut his eyes for a moment and Booth could have sworn he saw Moretti's lips move in a silent prayer – probably one for patience since the man had worked with Bones before. "I know," the Signor finally replied. "I know. And let me assure you, Dr. Brennan, the area has been sealed off since the poor girl was discovered. No one has been down there."

"No one but you?" Bones countered, steadily looking Moretti in the eyes.

Moretti shook his head. "Not since the initial discovery. Of course the nuns confirmed it with me…"

"Of course," Bones replied now staring over the yellow tape, straining to see anything in the dim light.

"And I called the Vatican police, who cordoned off the area," the priest finished, ignoring Bones interruption and looking up at Booth. "They determined who the young lady was and that she was an American citizen. Since then, the place has been off limits to everyone except the Vatican guards who are watching the entrance." The man waved his hand at the two men standing just to the side of the door.

"Thank you Signor Moretti," Bones said, "but just when are the Vatican police going to let us in?"

"Just as soon as I tell them you're here," the Signor replied, pulling out his cell phone from a pocket in his flowing robe. "It is good to see you again, Dr. Brennan. It's just a pity it's never under better circumstances."


	4. Darkness

**Chapter Four**

**Darkness**

Booth and Brennan had both encountered some very unique crime scenes over the years, but nothing quite prepared them for the experience of descending into the burial tombs under St. Priscilla. While Brennan looked appropriately eager to be in such a location, clearly reveling in the opportunity as an anthropologist, Booth felt a strange sense of trespassing on the territory of the dead. Every scent and sight memory of a childhood in the Catholic Church was magnified a hundred times, putting his mind into overload.

Signor Moretti had met them at the rear of the property on which the catacombs were located. The estate itself was impressive, but it was nothing compared to the gothic chapel with its archaic features and decorations. Beyond the chapel, a small path lined by weathered olive trees had led them to the mouth of the tombs. As Signor Moretti was preparing to ask the guards to stand aside, the group was joined by a woman in a flowing habit, her rosary making a soft clinking noise as she walked.

"Buon giorno," she greeted them with a slight nod of her head, her hands tucked away beneath her scapula. Booth wondered how she could stand to be in the summer sunlight in the mass of black robes. She didn't seem to be the least bothered by it.

"Ah, Sister Angela," Signor Moretti said. He turned to Booth and Brennan. "Sister was one of the first to discover the scene. I've asked her to be here to escort you to the location. The tombs can be rather confusing if you're not familiar with them."

Brennan turned her attention to the nun.

"You have a lot of knowledge of the catacombs?" she asked, shifting her hold on the bag carrying her equipment and looking rather impatient to be moving.

"Yes," Sister Angela replied, her voice laced with an accent. "I have been associated with St. Priscilla for fifteen years. The activity in the catacombs has been under my supervision for the last eight."

"Can you tell us what happened the day you discovered the scene?" Booth asked.

"I was at mid day prayers. One of the novices came to me, filled with urgency, and took me to the tombs," the Sister explained, her eyes sorrowful. "The poor child… to come across that sight by herself. God preserve us all from such a fate."

"He doesn't seem to be doing a very good job so far," Brennan muttered just loud enough. A sharp jab to her ribs made her start. "Ow!"

She looked over to find Booth glaring at her, his expression clear as day even behind his sunglasses. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, but she caught the warning.

"Sister, I apologize for my partner," he began, turning his attention to the nun, who gave a slight wave of her hand before it disappeared back into her robes.

"We are used to all kinds here," she said as an explanation.

"I'd like to see the crime scene now," Brennan said firmly, growing tired of standing around.

Sister Angela looked to Signor Moretti who gave a nod. The Sister spared one more unreadable glance at Brennan before turning and heading towards the mouth of the tombs, her robes taking on a very dramatic look as they billowed behind her. Setting her jaw, Brennan quickly followed and Booth was not far behind. He jogged a few steps to catch up and positioned himself so that he was at her shoulder.

"Bones, let's try to keep the smack talk to a minimum here, okay?" he said quietly in her ear, doing his best not to trip over her as they started down the narrow stone steps.

Brennan shivered, unsure if it was the sudden change in temperature as the entered the tombs or Booth's breath hitting her just below her earlobe.

"I don't know-"

"Just… be respectful."

"I'm always respectful of other cultures," she whispered harshly. Booth rolled his eyes, though the gesture was unseen by Brennan. "I'll respect them as long as they respect my need to do my job properly."

"Fine."

"Fine."

They fell into a heavy silence then, the only sounds reaching their ears being their footsteps on the dense earth floor. In a matter of moments, the entrance to the tombs was out of sight and the only light source came from yellow tinted floodlights placed strategically throughout the passageway. At first, the tombs seemed rather unimpressive. The walls were lined with marble plaques bearing engravings in Latin and Italian. It was not unlike a modern day mausoleum. Booth watched Brennan as she walked determinedly through the tombs, her focus never shifting from Sister Angela. He was surprised, expecting her to be more curious about their surroundings.

"So what put you on such bad terms with the Pontifical Commission?" he asked, feeling the need to fill the time until they reached the scene.

He was met by a heavy sigh.

"It's a long story," Brennan said.

"Give me the short version," Booth prodded as they turned a corner, heading down an even narrower and darker passageway. As they moved along, he noticed that the plaques were now replaced with hollowed out niches, many of them labeled below the rectangular spaces. The air was becoming mustier.

"The Commission advertises itself as a supporter of Sacred Archaeology, claiming that they are working towards cataloguing and publicizing important artifacts that have been in possession of the Vatican for hundreds of years," Brennan explained, her voice becoming more intense as she continued. "Some of the artifacts are extremely important anthropologically and deserve to be in the public domain, but they're being held by the Vatican, many of them hidden away so that no one knows they exist anymore. There are rumors that they have an entire vault under the Vatican itself that holds artifacts since before the supposed birth of Christ."

"_Bones_," Booth hissed, wondering why he was still surprised at her audacity. "Do you _understand where we are_?"

"Yes, I do," Brennan slowed a bit and looked over her shoulder at him, pointing to one of the tile labels beneath a niche. "We're in a Jewish tomb. I hope you don't think I'm offending anyone here."

Booth stopped, dumbfounded, his gaze following her hand. Sure enough, he had failed to notice that the graves were labeled in Hebrew. He looked up, intending to ask her to explain, and noticed that she was disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

"Later, then," he muttered, hurrying to catch up.

He slowed immediately as he rounded the corner.

The crime scene hit him like a sucker punch in the gut. They had entered a dead end in the tombs, the room a mere twelve by twelve at the most. On the far wall was a single niche, carved out lengthwise so that the shrouded body was displayed from the side. In front of the wall, a large slab of rock had been positioned; whether as an altar or a something else it was uncertain. It didn't really seem to matter. All that Booth could focus on was the nearly decayed body splayed across the rock, arms at right angles to the body, legs at forty-five. The waxy remains of candles were everywhere. What looked to be rotting fruit and dried out branches lined the bottom of the makeshift altar.

Booth glanced at Brennan, standing to his left with an equally horrified look on her face. Sister Angela had stopped at a safe distance, just inside the room but not any closer than she needed to be. It took a moment, but Brennan reclaimed her composure and got to work, setting her bag down and extracting her tape recorder and camera.

"Permission to retrieve?" she asked habitually.

When she was met with silence, she glanced over her shoulder at the nun. Sister Angela studied the anthropologist for a moment, then shifted her gaze to Booth.

"Only from the crime," she answered. Her eyes fell on the body of the young girl and she crossed herself. "Santa Madonna, prega per noi."

Booth watched the nun as she made a hasty retreat from the room, clearly unnerved by the situation and relying on prayer to keep her calm. His attention was brought back to the grisly scene before him when he heard Brennan's recorder click into action.

"Female, late teens, Caucasian," Brennan dictated, circling the body. "No obvious blunt force trauma, but I'll have to make a more precise decision once I get the body into a lab. No restraints on the limbs, suggesting victim was either already dead at time of positioning or restraints were removed at some point postmortem. Again, more thorough examination of the body will reveal any trauma due to restraints."

"You want a team called in?" Booth asked.

"Yes, as soon as possible," Brennan answered. "I'll take pictures now, and then by the time they get here the scene will be ready for transport."

She placed her recorder in a back pocket and lifted her camera to begin the process. Booth began inspecting the room as she recorded the scene. After two shots, Brennan stopped and look down at the camera, frowning.

"Flash isn't working," she mumbled. Booth walked over to her, his hand out,

"Lemme see," he offered. Just as he was about to take the camera from her, a soft pop resounded from the passageway outside, and the room was plunged into darkness.


	5. Pagans

**Chapter Five**

**Pagans**

"Damn."

The catacombs were plunged into pitch darkness and stillness. So still that the only thing Booth could register were the sounds of his and Bones' breathing and the sticky, sweet smell of the decaying fruit and body in the catacombs.

"Damn."

"Saying it twice isn't going to make the lights turn back on." There it was. Bones' cool voice of reason.

"I know, but it makes me feel a little better." Frustration edged his words.

Booth scanned the area, looking for any flicker of light or sound of life. Nothing. It seemed that Sister Angela had high-tailed it out of there to pray with the living for the souls of the dead. "Can you see anything?" he whispered.

"No. And why are you whispering?"

She had a point, but Booth wasn't going to let her know that. "Because we're in church."

Dead silence for five seconds.

"Technically we're _under_ a church."

"Same thing. And we're in a cemetery. Kind of."

He could nearly hear her eyes roll. "It's not like they can hear us. And you never whisper in the lab."

"That's because…that's because…that's because when they're in your lab, they're _bones_, Bones."

"They're still dead."

Two seconds of silence this time.

"It's still different," he hissed. Booth took a deep breath and steadied his thoughts. There was no other sound but their breathing and water dripping from somewhere deep inside the catacombs. He took rapid-fire mental stock of their situation:

Her camera flash wouldn't work. No light source there.

His flashlight was back in the United States in his FBI-issued SUV.

From the quiet, he could deduce that the good sister and everyone else had left them alone down here to take stock of the situation, counting on him and Bones to return to the outside when they were ready to retrieve the body.

What did they have?

Each other. That might be more than a small comfort if they ended up spending the night down here together. A certain part of Booth's body seconded that thought. He squelched any rising ideas that part might have. As attracted as he was to Bones, there was no way anything was going to happen in the catacombs. That was just too creepy.

_What else, what else…_

Her kit. Bones had her kit. "Hey…you have your kit with you, or did you leave it back at that altar thingie?"

"Yeah, but it's too dark to see anything." Her statement was followed by some fumbling as he heard and felt her kneel on the floor. There was the clink of the kit being opened followed by more fumbling. "Evidence bags, pipettes, petrie dishes…." She lifted the top tray.

More fumbling. Then her hands hit pay dirt.

"A laser light…the kind you put on your keychain."

Bingo. God bless the squints. They were better than boy scouts.

"Then laser us out of here, Bones."

The blue-white light bounced off the walls of the catacombs and back on her face. "Isn't that kind of like 'Beam me up, Scotty'?"

Score one for pop culture.

Three hours later found them in a forensics lab in Rome. After fumbling and stumbling their way out of the catacombs, Bones had ordered the remains of the young woman taken to a lab, along with the candles and fruit that surrounded the body for a more in depth analysis. And to a place where there would be no sudden power failures. Booth had gone along for the ride. Signor Giacomo Moretti promised to follow soon.

Bones' enthusiasm at that announcement rolled off her in waves. "He needs to stay out of this."

Booth shrugged. "This is his turf."

"These are my remains. I won't have them compromised."

He knew by the tight set of her jaw that Moretti was going to be in a life or death fight. And Booth would bet that the Signore could give as good as he got. Compromise seemed like a good angle to play at this point. "We're here at his bequest, Bones."

"We're _here_ because our victim is an _American_."

Booth bit his tongue as they pulled into the parking deck of the lab. "Just promise me something."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll play nice until you have a COD. This whole thing is hinky. I know that and you know that. Let's just don't pull out the big guns until we have the facts, okay?"

Bones nodded. But as soon as she had the truth, she was going to come out with cannons blaring. Or was that blazing? She mentally shook her head as she stepped out of the rental car and into the lab. Forty-five minutes later, she was suited up and peering at the remains on a lighted table, her Roman counterparts staying a respectful distance behind her and Booth across the room.

"The remains are female….late teens to early twenties…." she began, "Approximately five feet, five inches in height…." Another peer, this time even closer. "There are no eyes in the orbital sockets and little left of the organs or soft tissue, putting the time of death about six weeks ago."

Booth nodded. She was "in the zone," seeing nothing but the bones in front of her and working the jigsaw puzzle to see if she could come up with some answers. So far, they had found nothing they didn't know before. The girl was young. The girl was American. The girl was Olivia Daniels.

Olivia Daniels from Hoboken, New Jersey who had died a very strange death.

"Pelvis and pubic region indicate she had never given birth…"

"Her mom said Olivia was a good girl…"

"And she was about three months pregnant."

Booth swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbed uncomfortably against the collar of his shirt. "What did you say?"

Bones met his startled glance with her own cool gaze. "Good girls have sex, Booth," she explained patiently. "Olivia obviously had sex with _someone_ because there are fetal bones in her abdominal cavity. The size of the bones indicates the fetus was approximately three months along in gestation."

_Holy Mary, Mother of God,_ Booth thought and fought a desire to cross himself. Another soul for Sister Angelica to pray over.

Another layer to the catacomb mystery.

Booth had excused himself from the lab after Bones had announced that Olivia had been pregnant at the time of her murder. After giving the lab assistants directions to clean the bones and examine the fruit, she washed up and went in search of her FBI counterpart. He wasn't far, just outside the lab doors, leaning against the wall, his face about the same color as the paint that decorated the white interior of the _Laboratorio italiano di dialettica a Roma._ Cases involving kids were always the toughest. This time, the case involved two and it wasn't getting any easier.

"Come on," she told him, gently jostling his elbow. "I'll buy you a coffee."

Hesitation. "I don't think I could stomach any coffee from vending machines right now, Bones. But thanks."

Temperance shook her head. "I know this killer espresso/cappuccino stand within walking distance. Has the best Timarasu in the world." It wasn't pie, but it was a close second.

This time he let her lead him out of the lab and to the tiny coffee shop, true to her word, less than a minute away from the lab. Two cappuccinos and two Timarasus later, Booth felt minutely better. He stretched his legs out in front of him as they sat outside, each of them hashing and re-hashing their find in their heads. The body was telling them half the story. The decaying fruit would yield no fingerprints, but may lend up some DNA. Same with the candles. That is, if they were lucky.

"She was pregnant," he began.

"And from the estimated TOD, she had to have conceived while living here in Rome. Her medical records indicate she had to have a physical before leaving the United States – that was part of the requirements for her study abroad program – and there was nothing in them about any elevated HCG levels."

Booth sighed. "I told you. Students go abroad to have flings, Bones. A hot accent and an exotic location, and BAM! Everything the parents tried to teach them at home goes out the window."

Temperance stared down at her coffee cup for a moment. She was much better at logic. Give her the facts and the evidence and she could run miles around any defense attorney in the country and any crooked DA from any other country. It was the matters of the heart that gave her issue. That was unfamiliar territory. Even her own heart remained foreign to her at times, not trusting the emotions she couldn't quantify and measure. Especially concerning the man that was beside her. But to think that a straight-A, honor student would put everything on the line for a fling – especially one like Olivia appeared to be — didn't register as right with her. "She could have loved him, Booth."

Booth snorted and opened his mouth to reply when a voice cut him off.

"_Ciao Booth dell'agente e Dott. Brennan."_ Signor Giacomo Moretti appeared before them, bowing slightly in the late afternoon sun. "I hope I am not disturbing?"

Booth nudged Bones' knee under the table with his own. She clamped her mouth shut. He did the talking. "Of course not, Signor."

"May I sit?"

Booth nodded. Bones minded her manners.

The Signor lowered his short body into a chair across from them and eyed them both carefully before continuing. "I believe I may have solved this little mystery for us."

Bones bit her tongue. Booth took off his sunglasses. "You have?"

Signor Moretti nodded. "Pagans."


	6. Pagan Rituals and Restless Nights

**Chapter Six**

**Pagan Rituals and Restless Nights**

Brennan stared at Signor Moretti for a few moments, absorbing his words and trying her best to keep her composure in front of Booth.

"What do you mean, 'Pagans'?" she asked. She could sense Booth's eyes on her, no doubt picking up on her tone with his seemingly endless insights.

Moretti gestured to an empty chair at the table and raised his brow, asking permission. Booth nodded, adjusting to allow for the addition the their party. Moretti swept his robes aside and settled, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table.

"About five months ago, the Vatican was having troubles with a group of locals," he began. "A group of young men and women who still follow the ways of Paganism. At first, it was harmless meetings in the hills outside the city at night, bonfires, silly chanting. That sort of thing. But as they continued to research the practices, they became bolder. _Come dite?_… _avventato_. Reckless. They started to harass people – tourists, mostly. The polizia gave them a formal warning, and for a few weeks we heard nothing. Then, they broke into a chapel in Rome and defaced the altar, the Bibles, anything with sacred meaning. They also left a fine note for the Vatican, calling the Church discriminatory and vowing revenge. I doubt I need to explain the reaction this caused in the Vatican."

"And you think this is their revenge," Booth said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Killing Olivia Daniels on Church ground in a Pagan ritual."

Moretti nodded. Booth glanced at Brennan, catching her eye and exchanging an unsure look. He knew she would be quick to disagree with the hypothesis. Hell, he wasn't entirely sure he bought it himself.

"Signor Moretti," Brennan said slowly. "While the scene was… unique… there's not much to definitively classify it as Pagan."

"With all due respect, dottore," Moretti said with a small smile. "We've been dealing with people like this for years. People who think it's amusing to act out against Christianity in the most holy city in the world. We know the signs of blasphemy when we see them."

"And with all due respect to you," Brennan replied, feeling her skin start to flush with anger, "I am an anthropologist who has seen more in the way of religious ceremony than you ever have. I haven't been limited to a self proclaimed religious monarchy."

"Bones," Booth let out a quiet warning, which she promptly ignored.

"The nature of the scene we found could be classified under a variety of religions, even early Christian ceremonies," she continued, her voice rising slightly, drawing a few curious glances for nearby tables. "And I don't want to jump to any conclusions and automatically point the finger at Christianity's classic scapegoat."

Moretti leaned back and placed his hands in his lap, eyeing Brennan carefully. Booth's eyes bounced between the two, unsure of who he should be more worried about throwing the first punch.

"The last thing we are attempting is scapegoating," Moretti said evenly.

"Good," Brennan replied, her head tilting to one side. "Because I must be honest, _no_ _one_ is ever above suspicion in our investigations."

Booth swiftly nudged her underneath the table, his face taut with discomfort. She may as well have placed a bull's eye target on the Vatican. Brennan glanced at him but said nothing. Moretti rose form his seat.

"You have until tomorrow evening to examine the body," he informed them. "Then we must relinquish the remains to the family."

"What?" Brennan exclaimed.

"The family wants to have the funeral as soon as possible… give the poor girl some dignity."

"That's not nearly enough time to be thorough with an examination," Brennan said vehemently.

Moretti said nothing, instead reaching into his pocket and extracting a business card which he handed to Booth.

"When you want to contact me about the members of the Pagan group, call this number."

Booth took the card and looked uncertainly at the Signor as he placed a pair of sunglasses on his face and strode away from the café. He was beginning to understand Brennan's reluctance to working with the Vatican authorities. Pocketing the card, he looked over at her.

"C'mon, Bones," he said. "Finish up you tiramisu and let's get back to the hotel."

"I've lost my appetite," she said darkly, pushing the remnants of the pastry away from her.

"Well then, let's just head back. It's been a long day."

"I can't go back to the hotel," she replied quickly as they stood up. "I have to go back to the forensics lab to continue my examination. I need every moment I can get with the body."

"Bones, you haven't slept in almost twenty four hours," Booth tried to sway her, placing his hand lightly on the small of her back as they walked down the street.

"I'm fine, Booth, really. You go ahead, I'll see you in the morning."

Before he had a chance to argue, she had taken off down the street, dodging people on the sidewalk as she made a beeline for the lab. He had to smile a bit at her tenacity and the look of passion that crept into her eyes when she set her mind to solving the puzzle. He briefly wondered what it would be like to have that look directed towards him, her skin flushing as it had in her anger towards Moretti, but for an entirely different reason. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he decided that the best way to spend the evening was to go over the list of people who had last seen Olivia alive and begin preparing for his line of questioning.

A loud rapping jolted Booth out a sound sleep. It took a few moments for him to orient his mind before he glanced at the clock next to his bed and groaned. The rapping on the door continued, louder this time. Swiping a hand over his face, he slid from his bed and padded over to the door to his hotel room, knowing exactly who would be on the other side. He barely had the door open before she started talking.

"Olivia Daniels was strangled," Brennan started, entering before he even offered, reading from the files in her hand. "There was evidence on the tissue remaining on her throat that she asphyxiated as a result of a thin chain being pulled tightly from behind. There was a very distinct pattern… almost like beading."

"Anything more on the fetal bones?" Booth asked blearily as he settled on the edge of his bed, trying to make his mind catch up with her already racing one. He could barely keep up when he was awake and caffeinated, let alone in the middle of the night.

"I ran DNA tests," she told him. "Definitely a match to Olivia. She is the mother. I was unable to make a positive match on the paternity of the child. Most likely, the killer was unaware that she was pregnant. There was no other evidence of trauma to the body, indicating that the asphyxiation was the sole cause of death. Except…"

Booth waited as Brennan furrowed her brown, analyzing her own findings.

"The bones in her hands showed signs of being nicked with a sharp instrument," she continued. "Not fatal by any means. Not deep enough to cause that kind of trauma, and not near the right veins to cause a bleed out. It's congruent with cases of cutting that I've seen. The person causes enough damage to get the release of endorphins, but not enough to cause real damage."

"You think she did it to herself?" Booth asked, feeling his gut tighten at the thought.

"The wounds are old," she offered as an answer. "I still need more time with the remains to be able to compare the wounds to possible weapons, to collect more tissue samples in case I missed anything, run tests on particulates - "

"Bones," Booth interrupted her, standing up and closing the file she held, forcing her to look up at him. "It's three a.m. You've done the best you can for the time you've had. Go back to your room, get some rest, and you can start over tomorrow."

For the first time since she entered the room, Brennan realized that Booth was clad only in a pair of black basketball shorts. She forced her eyes to stay focused on his. It wasn't as though she had never seen him in less. It just usually wasn't in his dimly lit hotel room in the middle of the night. In Rome. Thousands of miles from the carefully structured atmosphere of Washington. She swallowed.

"I thought we were interviewing tomorrow," she stated.

"It won't take all day," he said, placing a hand on her back and ushering her to the door. "You'll have plenty of time with your bones. Now get."

Brennan gave him a reproachful look for his bossy behavior, but left the room without an argument. Between the mysteries that kept cropping up in this investigation and the image of Booth sans decent clothing, it would be very hard for her to acquire the rest she needed.


End file.
